


Two Sides to Every Story

by HarrogateBelmont



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Angst, Childhood Memories, Gen, Sort-of-a-Tinfoil-Hat?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:07:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28035147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarrogateBelmont/pseuds/HarrogateBelmont
Summary: Robin and Strike meet a mysterious new client, who has information to share about Strike's childhood.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 28
Kudos: 41





	1. Mr. Bloom

“It’s all the construction - my options are to take the bus, or a taxi, but either way, I’m going to be about a half hour late.” Strike was shouting through his phone, the din of London traffic audible in the background behind him.

“No worries,” said Robin. “I’m here. I’ll start with Mr. - “ Robin looked down at the paper in front of her, “Mr. Bloom, and can fill you in once you arrive. Half the time the clients are late anyway. Shouldn’t be too much of a problem.”

She hung up and came out of the inner office to inform Pat. “Cormoran’s caught in traffic - he’s still all the way across London. When Mr. Bloom arrives - “ Robin’s directive was interrupted by the main glass door to the office opening, and a tall, emaciated-looking gentleman in a stylish suit and scarf that was just flamboyant enough to stand out, entered the room. His hair was cropped close to his head, but it appeared to be mostly gray. His face was deeply-lined, but there was something familiar about his appearance. He was holding a plain manila envelope in his hand. Pat gasped.

Robin turned her head to look at the secretary, who had a look of slight adoration and disbelief on her face. Turning back at the man, confused, she held out her hand. “Mr. Bloom? I’m Robin Ellacott.” Mr. Bloom nodded, shook her hand, and cleared his throat. When he spoke, his voice had a slight rasp to it, but there was also something vaguely familiar in its tones. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, looking furtively around the office. “I’m sorry about the name. I didn’t think he’d see me otherwise.”

“Sorry?” asked Robin. Pat, who had come to stand next to Robin, nudged her in the arm with her elbow. “Rokeby,” she hissed in a not-so-subtle whisper.

“Oh!” Robin squinted a bit at the man, who was still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. 

“You’re taller…” said Pat, sounding a bit breathless. Rokeby laughed then, a genuine laugh that also had a tinge of familiarity to it. “People always say that,” he responded. “And my hair fell out during the cancer treatment. Just growing back now, but I thought, why not try to look my age for once…” he trailed off, looking around the office. “Is he in?”

Now that her initial shock had passed, Robin was able to compose herself. She offered Rokeby tea, asked Pat to bring some to the inner office, and shepherded Rokeby in as well. Her mind was racing. Strike was going to be  _ furious _ when he arrived, first, to see Rokeby, and second, to see that they had been tricked into wasting time on a non-existent case. She thought about texting him to warn him, but decided to have a bit of a chat with Rokeby first. Try as she might not to be curious, because it felt so invasive to her partner, she couldn’t help but realize that the familiarity that she had sensed, both in the way Rokeby stood, and in the way he laughed, had nothing to do with his fame and everything to do with the fact that he resembled his son when he did them. Could a laugh be genetic?

Robin offered Rokeby her chair, and went around the desk to sit in Strike’s seat. Pat entered with a tray, and Rokeby eagerly picked up one of the biscuits sitting on it, devouring it in one bite. Robin stifled a giggle, and waited a moment before speaking. 

“What are you trying to achieve, Mr. Rokeby?” she asked, trying her best to sound authoritative and professional. If she was honest, she was extremely curious and she hoped that something good might come out of the discussion. But she also did not want to betray Strike’s trust. 

He shrugged. Robin continued. “He’s not going to be pleased that you tricked him. I can’t even guarantee that he’ll hear you out.” She leaned forward. “I’ll tell you right now that your best bet is convincing  _ me  _ that you have something worthwhile to say. If you do, I can bring him around.”

Then she sat, watching him. She had learned from Strike that silence was one of the best forms of interrogation.

Rokeby twirled the ends of the scarf around his fingers. With his short hair and demure suit, he was almost unrecognizable as the wild rockstar who, up until last year, had still toured and played his music to tens of thousands of fans around the world. He could command an arena, but he seemed to want to shrink into the corner of their small office. 

“Just wanted to spend some time with him,” Rokeby murmured. “Things were complicated when he was young, and I wasn’t very persistent. I’m sure he thinks all sorts of things about me, but I just wanted to tell him my side of the story, clear things up.”

Robin nodded, trying to keep her voice even, although she could feel anger beginning to build in her chest. “That’s noble, but did it occur to you to also hear  _ his  _ story? Do you think you can understand what it’s like to grow up thinking - “ She stopped. She had almost said, “ _ thinking your father thinks you were an accident,”  _ but that was Strike’s secret to divulge. Instead, she said, “He was a child. You were his father. You were the adult.”

Rokeby looked up and met Robin’s eyes. He gave a short laugh. “Thanks for not telling me to fuck off. I can tell you wanted to.”

“Look,” Rokeby continued. “I’m not excusing my past behavior. But I was a kid. I wasn’t even thirty years old, and already had one failed marriage behind me. Leda didn’t even  _ tell  _ me until he was a few years old. She came home to England and we were on tour. I didn’t even see or hear from her again until after we got back, and by then, I’d married Clara.”

“But you didn’t believe her - you made her take a test to prove paternity,” Robin stated. In truth, she knew very little about it, only what she had read online or heard from Strike himself.

“Like I said, Clara and I had just gotten married. I thought Leda was gone. She never called, never wrote. I was hurt. And that year - the US tour - it was a blur. Look, I’m not  _ excusing _ \- “ He stopped. “Truth was, I was chuffed when Leda told me. But my lawyers and manager said we should get the test, and Clara was upset, even though we hadn’t  _ really  _ been together when it all happened. But she was already pregnant with Gabriella when Leda turned up and, well, it just wasn’t the best time to find out.”

Rokeby leaned forward, hands clasped. “I loved Leda,” he said. “I hate that term  _ supergroupie _ . She was a friend, and she was fun. And so, so generous. But she had a self-destructive streak. If she had  _ told  _ me in the beginning. If I’d  _ known _ , I think it would have been different. That’s what ultimately upset Clara. Not so much that Cormoran existed, but that she felt like she’d been the second choice.” He paused. “And she was probably right.”

Rokeby was certainly sounding convincing. Clouded by Strike’s stories, however, Robin found herself doubting his sincerity. “Why not try to be part of his life, though?”

“I tried!” said Rokeby. “I saw him a few times when he was small, a toddler. When Leda hooked up with Fantoni, she was stable for a while. I didn’t tell Clara, but I gave Leda money, and I saw Cormoran a number of times. I’m sure he doesn’t remember.”

“No,” said Robin. “From what I can tell, he doesn’t remember.” 

“I kept in touch with Leda’s brother and his wife. They’d tell me when he was there - when Leda’d gone off or was in a bad way. Would you believe that one time I had to hire a private investigator to find them?”

“You what?” 

“Yeah, funny how that turned out. Is that irony? I dunno. Anyway, Leda ran off with both the kids. Rick was on tour, but he and I hired someone to track them down. We’d been paying for an expensive school for both of them, and the school returned our checks to say that they hadn’t been there for a month. I sent in Leda’s brother to get the kids - Jenny - that’s my wife now - would have let us bring Cormoran home to us - she didn’t have the hang ups that Clara had, but both Rick and I figured that the aunt and uncle were a more stable solution.”

Robin’s head was reeling. She was trying to think about how Strike would react to this dump of information. While it didn’t paint his mother in the best light, it certainly changed the perception of being unwanted and neglected. And while Rokeby thought that his story was compelling enough for a reconciliation, Robin couldn’t help feeling annoyed at the way he was acting as though he’d been some sort of knight in shining armor by making a few half-hearted attempts to do right by his son. They sat in silence for a minute, and then Robin heard the familiar sound of footsteps on the outer stairs, and she rose, and held up a finger to Rokeby. “Wait here,” she said.

Pushing open the door of the inner office, she entered the main room at the same time as Strike. Robin shot Pat a quick glance and shook her head, and Pat sat back, reaching for her vape, and trying unsuccessfully to look uninterested. Strike looked frustrated. 

“Made good time,” he said, hanging up his coat on the rack. “Mr. Bloom show up on time?”

“He’s in the office now,” said Robin. “Cormoran - “ she stopped, unsure of how much to say in front of Pat.

Strike looked wary, but also amused. “What?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Nutter?” he whispered.

“I think you should hear him out,” said Robin, feeling guilty about the deception. She took a step closer to Strike, and in an unusual display of affection for the office, she laid a hand on his chest and reached up to give him a quick kiss on the lips. “But you don’t owe him anything. Just remember, this is your office, and your space. He’s more afraid of you than you are of him.”

Still looking more amused than apprehensive, Strike nodded, and turned to open the door of the inner office, Robin on his heels. 


	2. Let's Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike arrives at the office and listens to what Rokeby has to say.

The man sitting in the chair was in the shadows, and all Strike noticed at first was a respectable suit and a neatly-groomed head. When he entered, Mr. Bloom stood, and Strike had a moment of disoriented confusion as he tried to remember why the face seemed so familiar. It was lucky that Rokeby’s signature shaggy hairstyle and usual flamboyant clothing was missing; had Strike realized immediately, he most certainly would have thrown the man out of the office, using the scarf as a sort of tether. But in those few seconds that it took him to realize who was in front of him, Strike was able to control the flow of emotions that began to swirl around him. 

Rokeby stood, and Strike was taken aback to realize that they matched each other in height. Despite Strike’s size, the Rokeby of his imagination always towered over him.

Strike crossed his arms, unwilling to sit, which felt would give acceptance to this situation. Rokeby cleared his throat. “Cormoran, hello.”

“Hello?” Strike repeated, trying to decide how to react. Robin was standing with her back against the door, effectively blocking the only way out of the office. Rokeby seemed at a loss for words. Wordlessly, he reached over to the desk and grabbed the envelope that he’d brought with him. He handed it roughly to Strike.  “Thought you’d want to see these,” he mumbled. 

After another long pause, Strike took the envelope, and with a sigh, moved around to his side of the desk, sat down, and reached for a biscuit, which he proceeded to insert whole into his mouth. He instantly regretted it - his stomach was churning.  


Rokeby sat back down as well, and Robin moved around the desk to stand behind Strike, placing a hand on his shoulder. Strike picked up the envelope, and looked at it with suspicion.

“I don’t want anything from you,” said Strike. 

“The money I set aside for you is still in a bank account, earning interest,” said Rokeby. “It’s yours. We can talk about that later. You can keep what’s in that envelope, or you can toss ‘em. I’ve got copies.” 

Strike gave a nod of assent, and slowly bent the metal clasp and opened the flap. He reached inside, expecting to find a piece of paper, a check, perhaps, or some sort of legal document. Instead, a number of different-sized, aged photographs fell into his hand. He shook them out, and stared, unseeing, for a moment, at the images. He heard Robin draw in her breath.

The man in the photographs was, unmistakably, Jonny Rokeby. Strike picked one up, holding it gingerly around the edges. Rokeby was dressed somewhat conventionally but there was his signature mane of hair and his off-kilter squint, as he smiled into the camera. Leaning against his knee was a small, pretty boy of maybe three-years-old, who might easily be mistaken for a girl - his hair looked as though it had never been cut, and framed his face in long ringlets. His trousers, which were intentionally designed to look like a patchwork quilt, were too short, and exposed chubby ankles. His feet were bare. 

Strike felt like he couldn’t breathe. He threw the photograph aside, and picked up another, taken on a different day - the clothes were different - depicting the little boy laughing on playground equipment while Rokeby held onto him. A third photograph showed the boy holding a toy ukulele, while Rokeby pretended to drum on a rock with sticks. 

Running a hand through his hair, Strike felt in his pockets for his cigarettes. Then he remembered that he was actively trying to quit smoking and that there was a nicotine patch on his arm and all of his cigarettes had been donated to the homeless man who hung out around the Leicester Square Station. 

“Shit!” Strike banged his fist on the table. “What the fuck is this?” he asked Rokeby. 

“You were too young to remember,” said Rokeby. “Once Leda told me, I wanted to be involved. I tried. Had to sneak around a bit, because Clara - that was my second wife - wasn’t keen on the idea, but you were my  _ son _ . My first son. I  _ tried _ .”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t try very hard,” said Strike. To his horror, he thought he sounded almost as whiny as his nephew Adam. Unable to smoke, he pulled another biscuit from the tray. 

“You don’t fucking understand,” said Rokeby. “I had to work. I had to tour. I tried to keep tabs, and I sent money, but Leda just kept spending it on other things. I found out she’d dropped you and your sister off with her brother and used the money on plane fare to New York, and I lost it.”

“Why not give the money to my aunt and uncle then. Why not …” Strike did not want to beg for this man’s explanation.

“I’m not excusing anything. I told Robin, just now, I know I fucked up. It took me a long time to grow up.”

“Why,” Strike could feel the anger that the initial shock had dissipated now rising to the surface. He felt Robin grip his shoulder a bit more firmly, and he shook her off. “Why spend all this effort trying to set things straight?

“You don’t have kids yet, do you?” 

Strike rolled his eyes. “No. But guess what, you don’t have to have kids to know what it means to be a decent parent.” 

“True,” said Rokeby, who seemed to be relaxing a bit in his chair. “Didn’t say that. But it means something, to know someone is out there who’s that connected to you, man. Like, you don’t have to believe me, but I  _ liked  _ your mum. A lot. She was my mate, and she was fun, and liked a good discussion. You’re a part of her, and a part of me, and that’s just - “ He shook his head in a way that might have been more dramatic had his hair still been long. “It’s just  _ cool _ .”

“Cool?” said Strike. He was trying to wrap his head around the fact that, among other things, the man sitting in front of him had won awards for his creative songwriting abilities. But he was curious now. His mother had not had any long-lasting female friends that he had known about. Shanker was probably the only mutual acquaintance of his mother’s who did not have complicated, biased, or negative feelings towards her. Uncle Ted chose to remain silent, and Strike had never bothered to discuss his mother much with his uncle, deciding that his uncle would volunteer any information that might be necessary. 

Finally, looking down at the photographs once more, he said, “Tell me about her, then.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was only going to be two chapters, but I decided to break up the last part into a third chapter, partially because I am still tinkering with the right way to end it. I realize this is probably too fluffy or idyllic of a portrayal of Rokeby's involvement, but I do wonder if he and Strike had met more times when he was a child and that Strike just didn't remember. And what's the good of fan fic if you can't explore a little, right?


	3. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rokeby shares his memories of Leda with Strike.

Rokeby smiled in a dreamy sort of way. “Leda. Yeah. Well, you know she was beautiful.” 

Strike shrugged. He  _ had  _ known, of course, that men found his mother attractive. It was something that had made him proud as a small boy, and profoundly embarrassed as a teenager. “Yeah,” he said. “You don’t have to go into detail about all of that. Don’t forget - she was my  _ mother. _ ”

“Okay, I get it, man.” Rokeby was starting to animate. He was sitting up in his chair and leaning forward, his right leg, which was crossed over his left, bouncing excitedly. “She came to London while we were recording our first album. We were all just starting out.”

He proceeded to tell Strike a number of stories. Strike soon blanked out the parts that involved exploits of the Deadbeats, noting that Rokeby seemed to be the hero of his own stories. What stuck was the fact that someone remembered a happy, witty, purposeful version of his mother. Strike even laughed a few times, as Rokeby relayed details that rang very familiar to Strike. Irresponsible, dangerous behaviors of his mother’s that sounded charming when retold through the eyes of a former paramour.

Robin slid her arm around his shoulder once more, and this time he reached for her hand, feeling tears pricking at his eyelids as Rokeby described a woman who lived for the moment, who eschewed responsibility, who was generous and kind, but also bound by no one. Until chance had turned her into a parent - a person who had no choice but to try to be responsible all the time. And at this, she had been unable to succeed.

“Okay,” said Strike, after Rokeby had finished telling him what had happened when Leda had finally appeared to tell him about his son. Rokeby’s version involved him crying, some arguments that sounded almost charming, and a reunion that, while not passionate enough to give Rokeby’s second wife concrete reason to complain, certainly had hints of rekindling about it. Strike was trying to process which parts of the tales might actually be true. The analyst in him had been cataloging these stories, making mental notes to discuss the details with Ted the next time he was in Cornwall.

“I - thank you for this. I’ve never met anyone who - “ he searched for the right words. “Who liked her this much before.”

Rokeby looked delighted, and Strike struggled for a moment, torn between a desire to please, and a compulsion to be honest. Choosing his words carefully, he spoke. “I don’t doubt that you’re a good father. Al has nothing but good things to say about you, and even Prudence seems keen on you. But you have to accept,” Strike leaned forward. “My childhood was _shit_. That beautiful, generous, indulgent woman who you remember so fondly was crap at responsibility. The only stability my sister and I ever knew was with my aunt and uncle, and somehow, it was okay with everyone for her to rip us from them whenever she decided she wanted to be a mother again. You may have paid for an expensive school for a few months, but during that time, we lived with _rats,_ drug addicts, and degenerates, and had no hot water.”

“And then,” Strike felt like a wave was swelling inside of him, and he could choose to jump over it and look ahead, or he could ride it into the shore, wringing everything he needed out of it before moving on. “Then -” He held up a hand. “I’m not complaining, because I  _ asked  _ for it, but that bastard Gillespie was harassing me weekly when I borrowed what you referred to as  _ my _ money, to pay everything back.” 

“Hey man,” said Rokeby, shrugging, “I’m sorry about that. He’s my lawyer, he’s like a guard dog - trained to look after me. Probably thought he was doing the right thing. But that wasn’t cool. I’ll let him know.”

“While you’re at it,” said Strike. “You might want to get someone to look into the status of that account.” Suspicions that he had never dared investigate were surfacing. “I think maybe he had other reasons to ask for the money back so quickly.”

“Are you asking me for a job?” Strike looked at Rokeby sharply, and Rokeby laughed awkwardly, and Strike realized he had been attempting to make a joke. And suddenly, Strike felt extremely grateful that he had not had to contend with adding this immature and unstable man into the mix of his already chaotic childhood.

And he was on the beach. The wave had petered out, the water was retreating back into the ocean, and Strike was done. He stood. 

“I appreciate knowing this. I need time to process it.” Then, with a business-like formality, he held out his hand. “I’ll be in touch.”

Something like disappointment flickered across Rokeby’s face, and his eye twitched. He was a man who was used to getting his way, to being forgiven for a multitude of transgressions. When people talked about Rokeby, his temper and his arrogance was viewed as a natural and acceptable side-effect of his creativity. He had obviously been envisioning a more emotional and committed conclusion to the meeting. But he stood as well, reached out, and shook Strike’s outstretched hand. “There’s a card in there with my personal cell number,” he said. “Call me anytime you want. For the record, I am proud of you, if I’m allowed to say it. My dad fought in the war. You’re the only one of his grandkids who went into the military. He’s gone now, but you remind me of him.”

He lingered awkwardly for another few seconds. The room was quiet as the two men stared at each other, eye to eye. Rokeby looked like he wanted to say something else, but decided against it. Strike knew that the expression on his face was stony. 

Then Robin said, “I’ll see you out, Mr. Rokeby.” She ushered him out the door, and Strike could hear them conversing in low tones in the outer office. Strike sat down heavily in his chair and picked up one of the photographs. After scrutinizing it for a few seconds, he threw it back down in frustration. He couldn’t remember that child, but false memories were already infiltrating his brain, imaginings, whisps, faint hints of sunny days and excitement.

It wasn’t enough - not enough to move forward with a relationship. But it was enough for him to have some closure where his paternity was concerned. The realization that Jonny Rokeby would never have been a knight in shining armor - never could have been the father he had dreamed about was almost comforting to Strike. He remembered one of one of his last conversations with Aunt Joan - she had been right. What he didn’t know about Rokeby, about his childhood, had been at the heart of some of his issues. And now that he knew, he could let it go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This last chapter was very difficult, and I hope it rang true. I spent a lot of time thinking about how Strike ultimately, would react to Jonny Rokeby, and maybe I am an unsentimental being, but I couldn't see it being all roses and forgiveness. Strike is a 40-year-old man who has basically made his own way in the world, and I'm really not sure what he has to gain from a relationship with Rokeby other than more celebrity and fortune, which he seems to not want. The Gillespie stuff was inspired by some online discussions. Re-reading _Cuckoo's Calling_ and _Troubled Blood_ , I definitely think he's suspect in some way. Anyway, it's fun to try to guess where things are going with some of these secondary characters! Thank you everyone who read and commented so kindly!

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since _Troubled Blood_ I have been curious about what Rokeby's "side" to the story might be. There are so many gaps in what we know about Strike's childhood, and I don't know that Strike's memories are always reliable. This is my attempt to try to come up with one version of what might have happened.


End file.
